


Things got bad and things got worse

by radioactivedean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Claustrophobia, Gen, Horror, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Sam Winchester, Stanford Era, but uhh not until chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-07-18 19:53:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16125560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioactivedean/pseuds/radioactivedean
Summary: The witch hunt with dad went fine, but what seemed to be over wasn't. Dean finds himself trapped, literally. Only Sam is close enough to reach him in time to help.[Stanford era, John mentioned but not there]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The claustrophobia tag is there so uhh it's a potential trigger I guess! This fic has it. You've been warned.

**May 2003**

He thinks he must still be sleeping, except it doesn’t feel like he’s sleeping at all. He’s too cold. He raises his arm to wipe his eyes and it hits the _(ceiling?)_ only a couple inches away from his face. It’s so dark he can’t see anything, and he jerks upright, panic filling him, only to discover that he can’t move. He’s laying on his back, still in his jacket and jeans and boots, that much he can figure out. He trashes wildly for a couple seconds, and god, he knows it’s dumb, but it’s so dark so dark he might as well be blind, and he can’t fucking move, the walls are too close for him to roll over, the ceiling too low for him to prop himself up on his elbows, and his boots hit another wall in front of him, he’s in a fucking coffin-

‘Fuck!’ he yells, thumping his head back in anger, his breath coming out stuttering, his hands shaking in fear. But he’s not dead, is he? 

_You’re not dead, so pull yourself together, damn it, you know better than that. You can still get out._

He closes his eyes, except, what’s the point? He can’t see anything anyway and it would make him chuckle if he weren’t so afraid. He forces himself to even out his breath, to lay back quietly and count to ten. He focuses on what he can feel. That’s what Miss Connelly, the school therapist, told him back in high school – _‘name five things you can see-‘_ – oh, okay, skip that - ‘Nothin’, fuckin’ nothin’’, murmurs Dean to himself through gritted teeth – but the rest of it, yeah, he could use the rest of it. _‘Four things you can touch’_. He spreads his hands and surprisingly enough, he feels cold metal, not wood or material like he expected to in a coffin. But are the other walls metal, too? He touches them tentatively and yes, they are. But there’s something else, too – a sheet. He’s laying on a sheet. He bets it’s a white one, too, and he can feel it’s cheap between his fingers, he’s slept on too many cheap sheets over the years. The material is crumpled and creased, probably thanks to his trashing. The ceiling is metal too. He slides his fingers between the walls and the thing he’s laying on to confirm his growing suspicions and yes, there’s space and there are handles. He knows he’s really, really cold, fuckin’ freezing, and so is the metal, and that’s the final confirmation.

He’s trapped in a morgue.

It all makes sense, then, and he mentally thanks Miss Connelly – not for making him spend one hour a week with her to ‘learn to control his temper’, his temper is just fine, thank you very much – but for giving him this technique. As dumb as he thinks it is, it’s helped him calm down more than once. It’s also what dad always says, _‘focus on your surroundings’_ , but this time, it was Miss Connelly that popped into his head first, god knows why. He leaves out the next hearing, smelling and tasting (ew) parts, because by now he knows. The witch he and dad killed just two days before, that witch left a gift, and Dean was stupid enough to… activate it, he thinks.

At least he’s intact, no parts missing. He can’t move much, since he’s locked in a fucking body fridge – but he’s not in any pain. He goes through his options on how to get out of there. 

It’s better that it’s not a coffin, obviously, but since he’s in one of the drawers, and he’s opened a lot of those in his life, looking at dead folks, he knows it won’t open from the inside. It should slide out, and the mechanism is easy, like in a regular drawer, but – most of the morgues he’s visited, the drawers had a handle from the outside. You have to grab it and press it slightly which releases the two locks on the inside and then pull to get the gurney to slide out. Dean has no idea why would anyone need to take such dramatic precautions for a bunch of goners who went into the light. After all, most of them don’t come back. 

_Yeah, but if they did, wouldn’t it make you feel better to work here knowing they can’t get a jump on you?_ , a voice in his head whispers. Dean huffs; that’s ridiculous. Normal people don’t expect to get jumped by a zombie, don’t even consider that possibility. Dean knows, he saw – most of them didn’t want to believe in evil even when evil slapped them in the face. ‘Oh, it was just a poor, deformed man’, ‘I must’ve been dreamin’’, and, Dean’s particular favourite, ‘It was just the wind’. 

He braces himself, putting his hands flat on the ceiling and pushing with all his might, trying to slide out despite everything. He grunts, kicks at the wall in front of his feet, but it doesn’t work. The drawer’s blocked and there’s no way for him to unlock it the way he’s trapped. He tries, though – nudges the locks with his boots, then kicks at them, all the while hearing a nagging voice in his head, _what if you break them and you trap yourself from both sides?_ But to no avail, the locks are strong and he can’t crush them the way he’s positioned, he’s not even getting close. 

He doesn’t hear any noises from the outside, doesn’t even know if it’s night or day, but he still opens his mouth and tries:

‘Help!’ 

His voice sounds weak to his own ears, and he clears his throat before trying again. 

‘Help! I’m in here and I’m not dead!’

He stops and listens for a while but doesn’t hear anything. He considers yelling more, but he’s not sure if it would change anything. Instead, he tries to feel what he’s got in his pockets, and he can only blame it on the panic –-- he completely forgot about his goddamn phone. 

He’s able to retrieve it and bring it to his chest, even fling it open as he whispers to himself _god please, at least one bar, come on,_ and it absolutely blinds him when it lights up. He groans and shuts his eyes to open them more carefully, and in the blue-ish glow, he doesn’t see one bar. He sees two. 

He also sees the walls and they seem even closer, and it makes him feel extremely claustrophobic. Trying to keep a lid on his rising panic, he wonders who to call. Dad is his most obvious choice, but then he realizes he definitely _can’t_ call dad. They split up two days before, and John went to Indiana to meet up with Caleb. He would be more than halfway through, and that would be too long to come back and help him. He’d freeze to death. Then there’s Bobby, but he’s in South Dakota, and that’s also too long. Besides, how stupid would he feel calling them to say, _‘yeah, hey, I know we killed the bitch, but I touched a thing I wasn’t supposed to touch and now you have to come get me’?_ This is exactly why dad didn’t want to send him on solo hunts, and when he finally does, he would have to come back and clean up Dean’s messes. Like he’s a ten year old kid who can’t keep his hands to himself.

If everything goes right, dad doesn’t even have to know about his fuck up. Dean worked so hard to track that witch and hell, he thinks dad was maybe even… proud, for once? He did say job well done, and they went for a beer, and then dad said, _wanna take up on that banshee lead in Nevada?_ And it would be the first time he’s given Dean such a dangerous hunt, alone, and if that didn’t speak of trust in his capability, Dean didn’t know what did. 

There’s only one reasonable choice and Dean knows it, he’s already made it. He’s half looking forward to it, half dreading it. But he’s in California and who else could he really ask to be here on time? 

He picks the number and makes the call.

He waits one, two, three beeps, starting to get anxious, after all, isn’t it exam session or something? And it really might be, he convinces himself, but then he hears:

‘Hello?’ 

And he has to clear his throat again because this voice, doesn’t matter how often he hates the person it belongs to, how much he’s told himself he’s over it, still makes him emotional. 

‘Heya, Sammy,’ he says. 

There’s a loud bang as if something is dropped on the floor, and he hears Sam rush out, sounding terrified:

‘Dean? Are you okay?!’

‘I’m fine, don’t get your panties in a twist,’ he smirks, but he knows it’s not sounding as careless as he wants it to. Being locked in a morgue might be lowering his joke quality. ‘Actually, um, I kind of… need your help.’

He hears Sam inhale. 

‘What? Dean, what’s going on? Where’s dad?’

‘Dad’s fine,’ replies Dean, although it’s not what Sam asked and they both know it. ‘He’s away, though, and I’m in Cali. I’m kinda stuck.’

‘Stuck where? As in…’ he hears Sam lower his voice and whisper the rest of the question, and it’s angry. ‘Do I have to bail you out of jail, again?’

Dean exhales. It happened once, damn it, almost a year ago, why is Sam still giving him shit about it? And now he knows he’s gonna get an exasperated ‘What?!’ followed by an either ‘Have you lost your mind?’ or ‘Did dad _leave you alone_?’. But he needs Sam’s help, so he has to say it. 

‘I’m not in jail, asshat, I’m in a morgue, in one of those huge freezer things,’ he confesses. ‘Dunno what this shit’s called, though. Y’know, the one that looks like a dresser, but instead of boxers and socks there’s bodies in it.’

‘What?!’ Dean thinks, score one. ‘You’re telling me you’re in a morgue?! In a cold chamber?!’

Cold chamber, okay, sounds fitting? He doesn’t know how cold it actually is here, but he can see his breath forming a puff of steam and he’s trembling. He’s glad he didn’t get zapped here naked. Ugh. That makes his entire body shiver more. He’s pulled out of his thoughts as he hears movement on the other side (of the phone, not the room, unfortunately), and then Sam, angry:

‘How come dad’s not with you? Did he leave you alone?’

Score two. Good to know that even after a year apart, some things never change.

‘We finished the hunt together, Sam,’ emphasizes Dean, rolling his eyes. ‘It was a witch, and we killed it. But it left a bag behind, we had it in the ‘pala’s trunk, and he told me not to look inside, just torch it. And I did! But…’

‘But not before you looked inside,’ he hears Sam’s exasperated sigh. ‘Dean…’

He kind of smiles at that, which is stupid, but hearing his brother whine again, that’s something he’s missed.

‘If I found a royalty free spell that would help you ace those nerd exams of yours, you’d beg me to send it to you,’ he teases. Truth is, he wasn’t even after anything specific. But the witch was old, using parts of people from the morgue to fuel its spells, Dean figured, might’ve held onto something cool. Money, mostly, but also some old books that dad and Sam and Bobby just love to read, or a magical artifact, just something. Seemed like a waste to just torch it. And he has been careful! Or so he thought. He used gloves, and he threw the things on the ground, didn’t rummage through them. He’s not even sure what he touched first, but next thing he knew, he woke up like Meryl Streep in _Death Becomes Her._

‘Which morgue are you in? I’m on my way,’ says Sam, not even trying to comment on his joke. 

‘I don’t know,’ sighs Dean. ‘Last I checked, I was in Lodi. I’d say this might be the same morgue I was investigating with dad – Scott’s Funeral Home. I’ll send you the address, still have it saved on my phone.’

‘What if it’s not the one? It’s Sunday, they’re all closed, I don’t wanna go breakin’ in all the morgues nearby.’

‘It’s fuckin’ Lodi, Sam, I’m sure there’s not that many of them. We didn’t visit any other, so I can’t help you with that,’ lashes out Dean, and they both don’t voice the scary question, _what if he’s not even in Lodi?_ Sam could look for days and not find him. Dean doesn’t think about that, and also, wait… ‘Did you say it was Sunday?’

‘Yeah, why?’

Dean groans. 

‘It was Saturday evening when I was checking out the bag,’ he sighs dramatically. ‘Man, are you tellin’ me I’m in here for like a freaking day?! Next to some rotting corpses?’

There’s silence, and then Sam says sheepishly:

‘If it helps, they’re frozen, they’re not really rotting.’

‘It doesn’t help, Sam, alright?! What time is it?’

‘Only about seven in the morning,’ Sam replies. ‘Listen, I gotta go. I’m on my way already but I can’t talk to you in the same time. I’ll call you on the way.’

‘Great,’ Dean grits out. He gets it, he does, but for some reason (hard to guess?) he doesn’t want Sam to disconnect and be left alone again. ‘Just hurry up, okay?’

‘Sure, hang in there.’

The line goes dead and Dean looks for the message with the funeral home address and sends it to Sam. Then, he closes the phone. Thank god he has a lot of battery left. And service. Someone is really looking out for him, because if not for the phone…  
Well, at least it being very early Sunday explains why no one is out there to pull him out. He didn’t think of that, he didn’t think of many things. He wonders, has he really been laying here for a couple hours? He is freezing half to death, but that’s one thing. Why hasn’t he woken up earlier? 

‘Just a fuckin’ group nap we’re all havin’ here,’ he mutters to himself. Wow, that does _not_ help! Who would’ve thought? 

He closes his eyes and tries to think about anything else than the bodies he’s surrounded by and the cold. He has no idea how cold it actually is, and he doesn’t think he can freeze to death so fast, but it’s enough to make him shake and feel uncomfortable. He thinks about seeing Sam again. He’s probably grown a couple inches more, knowing him, the gigantor. He also thinks about dad and the next hunt. A banshee, Dean’s never hunted one of these before. But he’ll do the research, and then he’s gonna kick ass. 

God, he could really use a smoke right now. 

That reminds him – maybe except for the phone, he has something which could be useful? He pats himself down as much as he can, checks his pockets. There’s a knife he always carries strapped to his belt, but he doesn’t think it could help. A pack of Marlboros in his coat pocket, a lighter, but he can’t really light it up in here. A bunch of old receipts and spare change, an unopened condom in his back jeans pocket, the keys to the Impala and to the motel room. That’s it. He thinks about it, really does, but he can’t come up with a way those objects could be helpful to him in his situation. Truth is, his only chance is someone busting him from the outside – he can’t do jack squat about it locked inside. 

Unfortunately, there’s no candy stashed in his pockets, and he’s getting really hungry. He zips up his coat so he’s at least slightly warmer. He could warm up his hands with the lighter but he doesn’t want to risk it – who knows how much oxygen is in this… cold chamber? 

It’s about ten minutes later (he knows, he keeps checking the time) when he hears the first sound.

It’s like something’s moving… but not in front of him, more like next to him. On his left. But he knows there’s nothing there, even if something wanted to, it wouldn’t fit in there with him. So… it can only come from the next chamber. Someone else, transported like him? Someone alive? Or maybe worse, someone not quite dead?

There is no way that he can get this lucky and land both a vengeful witch and a zombie on one night. 

He waits with bated breath. The sound repeats. Then it repeats again, and again, and again, as if something's thrashing so close, but there are no other sounds. There's no voice. If he can hear it moving, he should be able to hear it screaming, shouldn't he? 

His hand goes to his belt, grabs the knife. He grips the handle tight, almost to the point of pain. Technically, even if it is a zombie, it's locked just like he is, so it can't harm him. But he's freaked out, and he's not gonna just lay there helpless.

The violent thrashing goes on for the next couple minutes. Dean can hear his heart hammer in his chest. Then, the thing lets out a sound. It's hard to say what it is exactly, because it starts as an inhuman howl, and it gives him chills. He pulls out the knife and lays it flat on his stomach, both hands attempting to keep it steady and ready to strike, if needed. The thing keeps howling. Minutes tick by, Dean's scrunching his eyes shut, and he wants to cover his ears oh-so-badly but he doesn't want to let go of the knife even more. 

Just as he thinks he's going to go absolutely crazy from the entrapment and the noise, the howling transforms into a stuttering laugh. That's even worse. That's terrifying, it's like being locked in an asylum and hearing the former patients, and Dean doesn't care anymore, he's trembling with more than just the cold, he lets go of the knife and opens his phone again, he _has_ to call Sam, has to hear someone real-

His hands still when the voice stops laughing and it says, loud and close:

'I know how to get out. Do you?'


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam comes to the rescue and, to quote CW, Dean continues to struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and for reading! Really means a lot. Sorry you guys had to wait so long, but at least this chapter is way longer than the previous one. Sorry for any mistakes as well, english isnt my native. 
> 
> Get ready for angst, banter and a bit of creepiness! Hope whoever's reading enjoys. Lemme know what u think!

Sam drives as fast as he dares. 

It’s still early Sunday morning, and the roads are next to empty. It’s easy enough to be caught by a cop for speeding, and Sam really doesn’t need that right now. He can’t stop thinking about his brother shut in some cold chamber, surrounded by corpses. He knows that the temperature in those doesn’t usually go lower than 36 °F, and since Dean hasn’t frozen yet, it can’t be terribly cold – but still, he will most likely be in some stage of hypothermia.

Sam drives onto I-580 E and speeds up a little more. It’s about 100 miles to Lodi from Stanford, and he’s pretty sure he can make it in less than an hour and a half. He knows Dean would do it in less than an hour, period. But he’s not Dean.  
He doesn’t drive much nowadays, anyway. Doesn’t even own a car – Dean’s not aware of that and would probably take it as some kind of personal betrayal, after all, he was the one to teach him how to drive – but Sam just doesn’t feel like he needs a car. Well, until now. As soon as he ended the call 

_(the last time you heard your brother’s voice?_

_No, shut up)_

\- he ran to Jess’ room and grabbed her keys. She’ll kill him if she finds out but maybe, just maybe she won’t. They’ve only lived together for a couple months, but they get along great, or so Sam hopes. It sounds sappy, but he’s pretty sure he loves her. Like, really loves her. Could spend the rest of his life with her kind of loves her. 

She owns a red Honda Jazz, one she got from her dad on her 18th birthday. It’s great for short trips away from campus, but Sam knows Dean’s going to mock him for it. He’s going to _hate_ it. Sam feels some twisted satisfaction at that; yes, he’s worried like hell, but he’s also pissed off.

It’s exam time, he’s sleep deprived and didn’t have time for coffee; him and Jess planned a trip to her parents’ next weekend if they pass everything during first term. 

He knows it’s stupid, but those are not the most important reasons. The most important are the ones that still haunt him day and night, but in his new life, they’re behind brick walls, put together for years and only sometimes cracking. Then Dean calls and it’s like all the false pretense of normalcy is gone, just like that. It’s not as if the bad stuff, the darkness and the fear and the smell of smoke and blood and dirt and death – it’s not as if it slowly starts invading his life, creeping in, no. It’s like a punch, and a strong one at that, being immediately immersed back in that dark, hopeless life, as if nothing changed. That’s what Sam hates the most, he thinks. It’s like everything he’s worked so hard for, losing _(leaving)_ dad and Dean, securing a future for himself, it’s all for nothing. 

It feels like he’s always going to be the gravedigger. 

And since Dean has an unusual talent to get himself into trouble, Sam expects more calls in the future. Granted, there’s been a long pause this time. Except the prison incident, Dean’s only called a couple times to chat, but only on occasions. That’s why as soon as Sam heard his voice, he knew something was wrong. First, he thought maybe dad took on one hunt too many, and he felt a fear so strong, it surprised him. He didn’t talk to dad for more than a year, and he didn’t miss him all that much, either. Or maybe he just didn’t want to admit that. 

But then it turned out it was just Dean doing Dean things, like touching stuff he shouldn’t and almost dying. And now Sam’s on his way to fix it. And he knows he will, every single time – Dean’s his goddamn brother – but… But. He knows he’s selfish, sometimes. Carries a lot of guilt as well. But no one’s forcing Dean to be dad’s slave, and Sam refuses to be randomly dragged back into their shit whenever there’s a crisis. 

So, he’s saving Dean. Fine. But one of those days he might not be there on time, like today, and why the hell did dad even leave Dean alone? Nothing like that would’ve happened if he were around. 

Sam considers calling Dean again. He’s more than halfway to Lodi, and it’d be nice to just check on him. Dean’s an asshole, that’s true, but this time he couldn’t hide that he was really scared. He’s sounded off and nervous and urgent, and all of that has only alarmed Sam more. 

He tries, but is never able to understand, why Dean won’t go have a life of his own. One where he’s not trapped in a morgue. It’s not like there’s something stopping him, it’s literally his choice. And he chooses to be elbows deep in monster’s guts. 

He dials Dean’s number, but no one replies. He tries again. Still nothing. It’s gotta be ringing on the other side, but Dean’s just not picking up. What could possibly be having more of his attention at the moment? Sam throws the phone on the passenger seat, irritated. Nothing good’s gonna come out of him wondering. He speeds up. He’s pushing 80 miles per hour and prays he’s not going to get caught. 

 

Dean doesn’t give the creep any satisfaction and pretends he doesn’t hear him, even though he’s pretty sure the creep knows the truth anyway. 

He lays still, trying to control his breathing, because the thing _(a zombie, it’s gotta be)_ falls dead silent. 

Geez, his jokes just never end. 

All of a sudden his phone goes off, the riff from Whole Lotta Love reverberating in the small space, too loud, making him jump curse clench his chest because his goddamn heart, he’s going to die here of a goddamn heart attack, what the fuck –

He opens the phone and sees Sam’s name on the display. Please be good news, he thinks, but then his companion decides he really doesn’t enjoy Led Zeppelin IV and starts howling again. It’s deafening and Dean’s dropping his phone and covering his one ear in an instant. Still doesn’t let go of the knife. He’s shaky and on edge, feeling like his every nerve is on fire, the noise, the cold, the small space it’s all too much and he feels like he’s going to go crazy.

The song ends, sending Sam straight to voicemail. The howling stops. Dean’s tempted to throw some snide remark, but speaking to the thing would mean more trouble, and he’s already checked his stupid decision of the day off the list.

He lays there and lays there and lays there. Sometimes, there’s a rustle, very close to him, sometimes something like a giggle, really disturbing. But nothing more. Dean thinks of all the things he’s going to do when he finally gets out. A hot shower, huge burger menu with beer, then more beer. Then something stronger. A smoke, his car, some company. He doesn’t know what’s the order going to be, but he’s going to celebrate his freedom. 

It could be just ten minutes, could be an hour, when he hears something new. He hears… a hollow-ish sound of something being released. Like… like a drawer’s handle. He stiffens, tests his grip on the knife. 

He doesn’t know how much the cold affected his movements; his teeth stopped chattering a while ago, but he doesn’t think it’s because it got warmer. But he’s still pretty sure he’ll be able to strike, if he’ll have to. Somehow. 

The thing next to him rustles but the sound goes lower and lower, as if it’s shrinking. Or maybe… leaving. 

There’s a thud as something lands on the ground, outside. 

Dean grabs the phone and quickly dials Sam’s number. His fingers are numb like icicles and he missed the right button. A couple of times. When he finally succeeds, he waits, hearing a dial tone in one ear and ragged panting on the outside of the drawer in the other. 

‘Dean?’ Sam’s hushed voice doesn’t bring much relief, not when the monster is outside and so close to grabbing him. Why is Sam whispering? ‘You okay?’

‘N-no – ‘replies Dean, trying not to panic and failing. He’s stuttering, since when is he stuttering? ‘Look, you gotta hurry, y-y-you – ‘

‘I’m almost there, Dean,’ there’s a click as if something’s released and Dean jerks violently, tries to back away, oh god it’s here it’s here but then it’s not, it was coming from the phone, ‘ – I just picked the lock, I’m going to get you, hang on okay?’

‘Sam, th-there’s – ‘

‘ - you hurt?’ Sam’s voice is laced with worry, even when he sounds so quiet, trying to be inconspicuous. Dean doubts there’s anyone in the parlor, anyway. 

‘I –‘

The drawer opens, and he’s grabbed so suddenly, he completely doesn’t see that coming. Hands close around his ankles, dry and rough, as if the skin on them barely clings to the bone. The grip is so strong, he loses his breath for a second and drops the phone, but not the knife. Except. The thing lets go before even half of his body slides out, and Dean’s able to take a breath again, and he’s wheeled back in. The drawer closes again, and he tries to kick and get out, though he knows it’s useless. God, he can’t feel his legs anymore. The thing laughs, it laughs in an eerily cheerful, but still dry kind of way. Takes a step, then another. Paces around the room like a predator circling his prey and Dean yells, just yells in anger and pain and fear. 

‘Son of a bitch, I dare you!’ he screams at the top of his lungs, please let this be over, and wonder of wonders, the thing listens. There’s a small pause. Dean listens intently until he hears some steps. The drawer slides out again. Dean’s panting as he grips the knife, all muscles tense and ready to fight and as soon as he can, soon as he slides out, there’s the hand on his leg and he sits up and plunges the blade deep into the hand – 

‘Aw! What the fuck, Dean?!’

\- of Sam. It’s Sam, and he’s got Dean’s knife buried in his palm, there’s blood and Sam’s holding the hand looking shaken - 

‘S-sammy?’ asks Dean, baffled. He looks around, but there’s no one else in the empty morgue, no one except for him, shivering in the warmer air and slumping over the drawer and his brother, his grown up brother, can-his-hair-get-even-longer brother who’s currently in pain. 

‘What the _fuck_ are you doing?!’ asks Sam through gritted teeth, raising his hand up to look at the damage. 

‘S-Sorry, I– ‘ starts Dean because he feels like he’s fucking crazy, where has the thing gone? He attempts to stand up, they have to do something about this mess, but as soon as his feet hit the ground, he falls to the floor. He’s way weaker than he anticipated. It’s a wonder he even managed to strike with the blade, and he can only give credit to his dad’s relentless training for that. Currently, he thinks he won’t even be able to lift a finger. ‘T-th-there’s a, uh- ‘

‘Shit,’ says Sam. Insightful, Dean thinks. Everything’s a little fuzzy, anyway, so he doesn’t care. ‘You’ve got hypothermia, Dean, don’t try to move, okay? I’ll help you, but-‘

‘Sam, there was a thing h-here,’ Dean says, because that’s important. He doesn’t know where it is, but the light from the window hurts his eyes, and he doesn’t really feel most of his body, especially his legs, and he can’t stop stuttering, which is really annoying. 

‘What thing?’ asks Sam, getting a bandana out of his pocket and putting his hand flat on the drawer that Dean just left. 

‘I don’t know,’ admits Dean, feeling stupid. ‘Maybe a zombie? B-b-but it grabbed me.’

Sam braces himself and pulls the knife out of his hand in one move, groaning as he does. Blood wells up in the wound and starts flowing down his arm, and Dean half-heartedly pats his pockets for something to stop the bleeding with, until he remembers the bandana Sam just got and is currently wrapping his hand in. Ok, so that’s good. Taken care of.

‘Don’t move, okay,’ he tells Dean and takes out a gun. 

 

Sam checks the drawers one by one, carefully and ready to shoot for the head, if he has to. His hand is a pulsing point of pain – thanks a lot, Dean – but he can’t really bring himself to be furious at his brother. Dean looks really bad, paler than Sam ever remembers seeing him, even back when dad found his porn stash, and worse – a loaded gun - under the bed when he was 12. He thought they’d never hear the end of it and Dean was forced to go through a gun safety course once a month for like, a year. 

All the drawers are empty. 

Hallucinations and confusion do happen with hypothermia, Sam knows, but if it’s really that bad, Dean might have to go to the hospital. He turns around to look at his brother who seems to have zoned out, propped against the chamber and the open drawer, his eyes closed with pale circles underneath. God, even his lips are blue. 

‘Dean?’ asks Sam quietly, shedding his coat and wrapping it around his brother. Dean’s eyes open a little bit, for him to murmur:

‘K-k-killed?’

‘There was no zombie, Dean,’ explains Sam, gently, because Dean like that, confused and lost, stirs some weird paternal feelings in him. He never really gets to take care of Dean like this and yes, he’s still pissed, but he puts that away for now. ‘Let’s go.’

‘N-no, there was!’ protests Dean, but he doesn’t put much feeling into it. He tightens the coat around himself with stiff fingers and looks around, seemingly bewildered. 

‘We gotta go, you’re freezing,’ Sam helps him get up. Legs still buckle underneath Dean’s frame, but he seems to be shaking slightly, which is great. That’s always a good sign, that means he’s getting warmer. 

Sam has to wrap an arm around him to support him and Dean’s quiet, subdued, and doesn’t even complain once about the girliness of the situation. Sam worries.

They get up the stairs, to the parlor, then through the shop and the back door with the busted lock. It’s all empty and when Sam leads them out, Jess’s car waits for them proudly on the curb, behind the funeral home. 

‘W-what _is_ that thing?’ asks Dean with distaste, shivering in two heavy coats under the bright California sun.

‘A car, jerk,’ replies Sam easily, opening the passenger door. Dean doesn’t bat Sam’s hands away when he helps him sit down, nor when Sam brings over an army blanket and tucks Dean in it. Just leans in the seat and stares right ahead, tired. Sam gets in and cranks the heat as high as it’ll go. He strips his outer shirt and stays in a tee, hoping he won’t melt. It’s fairly warm outside, as well. 

‘So-‘ he starts, turning to face Dean. ‘How you feeling?’ 

‘I’m fine,’ replies Dean and Sam rolls his eyes. Doesn’t say anything. Just keeps staring at Dean, expectantly. Finally, his brother gives in with a weary sigh. 

‘Okay, I’m not fine. H-happy?’ there’s no bite to his words, he’s too worn out for that. ‘Fucking c-c-cold.’ He huddles in the blanket and coats and huffs. 

‘But anything hurts? You can feel your legs and fingers and all that?’

‘I guess,’ replies Dean quietly, slowly bringing his hand to his face and flexing his fingers.

‘Good. We just need to get you hot again, and – don’t –‘ he warns when Dean opens his mouth, a smirk on his face, ‘-and back to the motel room. Once you sleep it off, should be good.’

Dean nods. They’re silent for a moment. 

‘Thanks for coming, Sammy,’ mutters Dean, inspecting his fingers. ‘N-not a th-thing I say often, but sorry for impaling you.’

Sam snorts and looks at his hand. The bandana holds, even though it’s soaked in blood. 

‘Yeah, I’ve had worse.’

‘Kinda sad,’ comments Dean.

They both don’t mention how badly Dean must’ve freaked out to do that. To wait ready, with a knife in his hand, in the darkness and cold for hours, ready to attack. 

‘You really drive this thing on the streets? In the d-daylight?’ asks Dean, a small teasing smile playing on his lips. 

‘Not mine,’ replies Sam, starting the engine. He figures Dean’s good to go. ‘Had to borrow it.’

‘From your girlfriend?’ Dean turns to him, the smile still plastered on. Sam shoots him a deadly glare. Dean’s grin doesn’t falter. ‘Your boyfriend?’ 

‘Dean-‘

‘Fine, whatever,’ Dean shrugs, faking innocence, but there’s something about him. Sam doesn’t know what. He seems like he really wanted to know. 

‘A friend, Jess. And yeah, she’s a girl,’ he tells Dean, taking a right and putting the funeral home in the rearview mirror. 

‘Ooo, Sammy!’ exclaims Dean, enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Tell me more!’

Sam regrets his good intentions.

‘Where’s your motel?’ he asks instead. Dean becomes gloomy again. 

‘Eh, not f-far. But first!’ he says, jabbing the window with his finger. ‘Take a left. Gotta get my b-b-baby.’

 

It takes them ten minutes to get to the Impala, all of which consist of silence until Dean turns on the radio and hears something that absolutely delights him. CCR at its best, thinks Sam, sighing, and knows what’s coming before Dean looks at him, tired but cheerful, and yells with the music:

‘Hey, Sam! Stuck in Lodi again!’

Doesn’t mimic the guitar sounds though, and Sam’s eternally grateful for that. He must still feel shitty. 

‘I bet they play this song all the time here. Like, every hour maybe?’ wonders Dean, and Sam notices he stopped stuttering. It’s so warm in the car, he feels like he’s in Africa and not Cali. ‘Lodi in Lodi. The universe is funny like that.’

‘I think it’s more the DJ at the radio station that is funny like that, Dean,’ deadpans Sam. Dean rolls his eyes.

‘You’re no fun,’ he proclaims. They finally reach the Impala, standing on the edge of a parking lot on the outskirts of town. The trunk is open, and its contents are laying on the ground; the witch’s bag and some unidentified objects that Dean managed to throw on the ground before he got… teleported. 

They get out of the car. Sam rushes to the passenger side, wanting to help Dean, but this time he does get waved off. 

‘I got this, Sam,’ warns him Dean, supporting himself on the car’s open door until he feels stable enough to stand on his own. He leaves the blanket behind, but keeps the coats on as they make their way to the other car. ‘God, if someone messed with my baby when I was gone…’ starts Dean, but it looks like no one’s been near. 

While Dean’s busy making sure the seats are clean and there’s no ‘hobo sleeping in the backseat’ as he put it, his brother takes out some lighter fluid out of the open trunk and generously pours it onto the bag and the other objects. He can make out an interesting looking book and some animal bones, gross, but he’s not going to touch, obviously. 

‘Hobo free,’ announces Dean, sounding content. He shuffles to where Sam is standing, taking out a lighter. ‘Which one do you think did it? Teleported me?’

‘No idea,’ replies Sam, throwing down the burning lighter, happy to get it over with. 

They stand over the small fire until it dies down.

 

Dean insists on driving the Impala back to the motel, of course. Sam can say whatever he wants, but he feels good enough to drive, almost one hundred percent. 

Sam follows him in that dumb red car of his. Dean doesn’t know about a Jess. It gnaws on his mind. Sam wouldn’t even tell him when he got a girlfriend? Sure, they don’t talk as much nowadays, but they still talk sometimes. He could’ve told Dean when he called the last time, which was. On Sam’s birthday. Two weeks ago. 

He’s still shaky, but he gave Sam his coat back, and he feels all parts of his body. He also craves a hot, steaming shower, and is gonna get one when they get back. He still can’t believe some low temperature messed him up that bad. It wasn’t even that cold, and there was no wind, so really, hypothermia? Some shakes, ok, he gets that, he did spend many hours shut there. His legs not functioning too well, same thing. But the vivid hallucination of a zombie yelling, talking to him, and then pulling him out? That was messed up and scared him a little bit more than he was willing to admit.

But Sam checked the morgue. There was no way he would’ve missed one whole zombie. And no way the thing could’ve escaped. Which left only one option, as improbable as it sounded. Dean was really hallucinating.

The motel isn’t that far. He pulls at the curb and gets to his door. Sam’s close, and he parks beside Dean and follows him inside. 

‘Ew, dude,’ says Sam, upon seeing the room. Dean rolls his eyes, again. Jesus, give him a break. Not all of them have nice apartments with their girlfriends, working towards their bright lawyer-y future. 

‘Ok, maybe I haven’t cleaned, princess,’ he replies, throwing the takeout boxes on the floor with one sweep of his hand. There, a perfect sitting spot. ‘Make yourself at home. I gotta shower.’

Sam nods, but he seems lost in thought as he looks around. The room is shit, yes. Dean knows. Hates the brown striped wallpaper with a passion. But neither dad nor him said anything, it’s just another room, one of millions he’s lived in and will continue to. They were focused on the case. Sure, there is a lot of leftover food and wrappers everywhere, and Dean’s clothes and weapons and books laying around. Sam will have to survive it. 

He hits the shower. The water is hot, and it feels glorious. He washes away the cold and most of all, the disgusting feeling he’s had ever since he woke up in the morgue. Being… dirty. Surrounded by those bodies. Except, were there any bodies? He wonders. Sam didn’t say anything, but if there was a body, he probably would’ve checked it out to see if it was a zombie. He should ask, later. 

He finishes shampooing his hair, already feeling more like himself, when he glances down and freezes.

There are two ugly, black bruises around his ankles.

He gulps as he forces himself to raise his leg under the hot spray. He looks, but is almost too afraid to. Sure enough, the backs of the bruises look like fingers. 

He shuts off the water, towels off, dons a t-shirt and jeans. Walks out of the bathroom and past Sam, who’s confused at his behavior and calls after him. But he can’t reply, not now. He leaves the room, leans against the motel’s wall and his shaking fingers find a cigarette. He lights it up and takes a long, long drag, and then puffs it out. God, that feels good. Helps him stop freaking out a little.

Sam comes into his view. He seems sheepish, as he steps outside and leans against Jess’s (his girlfriend’s) car, facing Dean. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at Dean, and Dean lets him. It’s just the two of them in the warm afternoon. How it should be, Dean thinks, bitter. 

‘Since when do you smoke?’ asks Sam, disapproval heavy in his voice. Dean takes an especially long drag on purpose, enjoying Sam’s bitchface.

‘Since always,’ he shrugs, which they both know is not true.

‘You gonna tell me why you ran out like that?’ Sam keeps up the investigation. Dean looks at the burning end of the cigarette. Maybe it’s all just a bad dream. He feels so… weird. The bruises on his legs burn, but he knows it’s just his imagination. If they were hurting before, he would’ve felt. It’s just the ugly truth that hurts. That truth tells him that there really was something back there, probably still is, and it really grabbed him. He suppresses a shudder.

But telling Sam would mean they would have to go back. And as he thinks about the darkness and the tight space and being immobile while that creature is right there and keeps taunting him, mocking him, and he can’t get out…

‘Were there any bodies?’ he asks Sam, instead. He looks up and sees that Sam’s surprised. 

‘In the morgue?’ asks Sam, dumbly.

‘No, in my goddamn trunk, Sam.’

‘There were none,’ replies Sam, slowly.

‘You better not be lying about this to me.’

‘Why the hell would I lie?!’ Sam throws his hands in the air. ‘Look, you think you saw a zombie, I believed you. I checked out all the drawers. There was no one there!’

‘Right,’ says Dean. Worst of all, he does remember seeing Sam check out the drawers. He thinks he blacked out for a moment, later on, but he’s not sure. 

So, what’s the truth? He has marks proving that there was a zombie. Sam says he checked the whole place out and there was no zombie.

Dean runs a hand through his still wet hair. Doesn’t matter. Either way, he’s not coming back. If the zombie really is there, it’s going to be someone else’s problem.

Except it matters, a little bit. It matters if Sam didn’t care to check it all out, just opened a few drawers and then decided Dean was being stupid. It matters if Sam never believed him. 

‘Are we gonna have a conversation, or not?’ asks Sam, looking irritated. 

‘Sure,’ replies Dean easily. He looks at Sam, eyes wide and innocent. ‘What do you wanna talk about?’

Sam clenches his jaw, angry, and looks away, and for a moment Dean does feel like an asshole. But Sam doesn’t give up.

‘How about we talk dad and you and hunting?’ Dean huffs and turns away, ready to go back inside the room, smoking ban or not. ‘No, Dean, wait,’ Sam stops him, hand on his shoulder. Dean turns around, annoyed. ‘Look, today, I just…’ Sam avoids his gaze. He lets his arm drop. ‘You almost died today, Dean.’

‘You saved me and I didn’t,’ Dean flashes him a flippant smile. 

‘Yeah, but what if I didn’t pick up? What if I wasn’t on time?’ presses Sam. ‘You were in a freaking morgue, Dean. This is not funny.’

‘Never said it was.’

‘What would you have done if I wasn’t picking up?’

Wait until the zombie gets me out of there, thinks Dean.

‘Call Bobby. Or pastor Jim. Hell, even dad, though he’s probably in Indiana already,’ he retorts. ‘Look, I got some friends, alright? I’m not into that whole lone wolf vibe, anyway.’

‘Except you are,’ replies Sam, sternly. ‘Did you even call dad? Did you tell him? You had that phone for hours with you, and you didn’t let him know, because you didn’t want to tell him you fucked up.’

‘Shut up, Sam,’ Dean’s voice takes on a warning tone, and he drops the cig, crushes it with his boot. 

‘If I didn’t come, you’d probably die there, Dean, and you know it!’

‘Well what do you want me to do?! I said thanks, didn’t I?!’

‘That’s not what I want!’ Sam seems to be aware they’re yelling in the parking lot, and he quiets down. ‘Look, I just mean. You know how I feel about hunting. But maybe it’s time you felt the same.’

‘Stop.’

‘Don’t you see? This isn’t because you’re weak or anything, Dean, so quit your macho act. No one can do this job alone. What if I can’t pick up, someday? What if I’m… too late? I can’t live like this, I don’t want to worry about you dying because dad’s not there to back you up.’

‘Then don’t worry about me,’ Dean has enough. This is too much heart to heart, and that’s probably why he and Sam can’t have that two brothers in the motel room chilling thing. They always argue. Maybe it’s better that Sam’s away. Maybe, no matter how hard he tried, they just won’t get along. He kind of feels like crying, and that’s the worst. He will not fucking cry. 

He doesn’t drive to Sam’s and put him through a guilt trip every time he’s worried about him. Sam’s made his choice and Dean’s pissed and hurt for years now, but he lets him have it. Sam’s a big boy, he can make his own decisions.

‘Come to Stanford with me.’

Dean stops short and looks up at him, surprised. He didn’t think it was going to go like this.

Sam looks so earnest it’s almost painful to look at him. 

‘Sam-‘

‘You could pack, get in the car and drive there with me, one hour, and stay,’ he offers, sounding desperate. ‘There’s enough room and all the rich kids need a great mechanic, and you could even study, they have so many majors to choose from, and there’s so many girls, you’d love it there, Dean.’

Dean smiles but this time, it’s genuine. Gentle.

‘Sam, you know I wouldn’t fit in there.’

‘You would! I swear. You’re not that different, Dean. And we could live together, like the old times, and-‘

Ok, but whose fault is that the old times are the old times and not current times?

‘Look, Sammy, I appreciate it-‘ starts Dean, not sure how to put it. 

For a moment he thinks about it - sees Sam and himself in the Impala, cruising through the streets of Palo Alto. Sees cheerful family dinners with Sam and this Jess, and maybe even himself stepping into some lecture room, meeting some normal people. But then he thinks about dad. Thinks about dad in some bar, drowning his sorrows and loneliness in whiskey. Thinks about himself, a couple years from now, with a degree and in some preppy clothes, in an apartment, maybe with a girl. He’d think he’s safe, he’d think he could start a family, but then one day he’d see it – be it during a slow afternoon, a goddamn picnic or a rock concert, he’d see one of those things and he would need to kill it. He’d still keep the guns and the knives, and at night, he’d dream about his mom on the ceiling, and remember that her killer was still free. He could do it like Sam – pretend that his past didn’t exist, tune it all out, until something happens. Until he sees just one tiny detail in that perfect picture, some blood smeared on the wall, a kid’s drawing looking way too creepy, an article in a newspaper mentioning ghosts. And it’ll all throw him right back in. 

That calm, comfortable life isn’t for him, and not just because he feels responsible. It’s also because he likes hunting. He likes doing good in the world in the most gritty, dirty way. He likes spending time with his dad, likes the greasy burgers and run-down motels and the thrill of it all. Life without all that would be boring, it would be just pretending.

‘- but I don’t think I want that,’ he finally tells Sam, surprised that that’s what’s coming out of his mouth. It’s so honest, so unlike him. But he thinks in that moment, Sam understands, because he doesn’t seem offended. For a split second, they stare at each other, and feel like brothers, feel like they really get each other. 

Then Sam shakes his head. 

‘Fine,’ he sighs, and he seems really fucking sad. Dean kind of feels like hugging, but of course he won’t.

‘Thanks, though,’ says Dean quickly. ‘Really, Sam. Means a lot. And if I-‘ he wants to say if I could, but he can. He just doesn’t want to.

‘Yeah,’ Sam saves him from that. ‘I don’t understand why, but I get what you mean. Just, stay safe, alright, jerk?’

He pats Dean on the arm and Dean smirks. 

‘Always, bitch. Destroy those exams of yours and give Jess some of that good lovin,’ he winks as Sam groans and walks to the car. Somehow they both know that it’s goodbye, Sam won’t stick around for some food and a chat. They’ve said just enough. 

‘Gross, Dean. You’re gross.’

‘Gotta thank her for the car,’ Dean shrugs, with his smile still in place. And he does feel a bit lighter. Sam’s such a sap.

His brother drives away, and Dean gives him a little wave. As soon as he’s gone, he goes back inside.

Packs everything he has as quickly as he can. He can still feel the bruises. Takes a swig from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s he keeps on the nightstand. He doesn’t want to be in this city any longer. Fuck Lodi.

He leaves the keys on the table and gets in the car. The radio plays some mellow song, no more CCR. 

He’s not gonna keep calling Sam. He’s right. Dean is too much of a chicken to confront dad, and he knows it’s not fair to keep calling Sam whenever he thinks he might die. So he’ll stick by dad’s side, be less dumb and more prepared. Can’t be that hard.

He starts the engine. Seems like hypothermia is long gone. He needs to sleep like yesterday, but first he wants to put a couple hundred miles between himself and this cursed city with its morgues full of invisible zombies. 

If anyone’s a lone wolf, it’s Sam. It’s not like Dean chooses to be alone. It’s just that everyone else leaves him.

He’s gonna get that banshee hunt, and once that’s done, he’ll feel much better. He’ll reunite with dad and things will be looking up again. He’ll be himself. 

He can still feel the bruises, so he tries to think of anything else. Miss Connelly already helped him out once, so why not again? Things you can see. He sees the roads, and the houses and the hot sun, and the clear blue sky. He can feel the steering wheel underneath his palms, smooth and reliable like always. He can smell his mint shampoo, and can taste the whiskey he just drank. Finally, he can hear, he realizes, another sappy song, and that just won’t do. He puts in one of his favorite Zeppelin tapes. 

Now, he’s ready to drive. This life really isn’t as bad as Sam thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for reading.  
> No idea if my morgue description is realistic enough, but no intentions to check by myself. Doing research on cold chambers was enough of nightmare fuel for one lifetime. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! I live for any kind of feedback.


End file.
